


Fascination

by pheromones



Series: Mettaton and the Real Reader Insert [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Cold Weather, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Finger Sucking, Fluff and Smut, HOT RECTANGLE ACTION HELLO, Lapdance, Mettaton makes a joke about Ted Cruz's face, Reader-Insert, Sexting, So read for that, Suit Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5761276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pheromones/pseuds/pheromones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fascination can cover a wide array of phenomena: innovative or stupid, uplifting or bizarre, beautiful or disgusting.</p><p>You’re about to ask Mettaton to clarify what he means by “you fascinate me,” but he holds up a hand.</p><p>“Before you say anything else, love, allow me to share some of the things I find so fascinating about you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fascination

**Author's Note:**

> Not as filthy as the last one but yeah, pretty fucking sinful.
> 
> Also shout out to Mettaton to being absolutely shameless in a five star restaurant, real classy.

“Did I tell you how absolutely beautiful you look tonight darling?”

Your face heats up as you twirl another forkful of linguine. “Several times, actually.” You stab a piece of shrimp. “This dress only cost $50 though. I’m sure you own dozens of things nicer looking than this.”

Mettaton looks scandalized. “Nonsense!” He bangs the table ― always the dramatic ― rattling your glass of white zinfandel and creating a momentary quiet across the restaurant. “You’re one of the _very_ few people who can wear sequins better than me!”

“Okay, that’s up for debate, but you still have _five_ custom made Jean Paul Gaultier suits _and_ you’re the face of the newest Gucci campaign.” You pop the fork of shrimp scampi into your mouth. Damn, for a robot-monster hybrid that only needs to eat once a week, Mettaton knows the best places for top-notch Italian. “Those ads splattered all over public transit make taking the train just a little less terrible.”

“Something’s bothering you.”

You pause from eating. Mettaton’s voice rarely tunes down to such a soft, serious tone. The only other time you’ve heard him speak like this is when he sat you down to tell you the truth of his “creation”.

“No, I’m okay,” you assert. “Don’t mind me.”

You reach for your glass of wine, only to have your hand taken by Mettaton’s. “Please, don’t give me any of that ‘I’m fine’ business. You’re a terrible liar and you’re not fooling anyone, least of all yourself.” His gloved thumbs rub gentle circles into your knuckles. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I’m sorry,” you swallow, the lump that suddenly formed in your throat making your voice hitch, “I guess...I guess I just don’t get what you see in me sometimes. Don’t get me wrong! I love when you compliment me and tell me I’m beautiful and stuff like that…”

Mettaton narrows his eyes at you. “But?”

“But I’m just some regular girl. I own about seven pairs of shoes, of which I only wear one pair on a regular basis. I sleep on a mattress on the floor of a four person apartment above a sub shop. Last night I ate a PopTart for dinner because I didn’t want to create any more dishes in the sink.” You look towards your lap, suddenly overcome with shame. “And you’re...god you’re _Mettaton_ for crying out loud! You’re talented and you’re successful and the pinnacle of technological advancement. And nevermind that you’re really really _ridiculously_ good looking.”

Fingers catch a hold of your chin, and Mettaton tilts your head back up to make you look him in the eye. His expression is soft, gentle, loving. “You feel you’re not worth the compliments I give you?”

You nod, hesitantly. “Like I’m not deserving of you.”

Mettaton turns your hand in his to trace a finger along the lines of your palm. “Darling, would you like to know one of the many reasons why I’ve been romantically courting you for these past few months?”

“...okay, I guess,” you reply, a bit tentative. Mettaton is, first and foremost, an entertainer, and everybody knows the key to being an entertainer is to craft theatricality ― to convince, to flatter, and to amaze an audience with an over-the-top persona. As far you know, Mettaton has been nothing but honest with you, but you remain hesitant to believe that he’s not just showering you with affection because it’s his job to be charming.

If Mettaton is playing up an act with you, then he’s doing it a damn good job at it because the way he’s looking at you ― from the tender gleam in his visible eye to the slight tension in that perfectly crafted angular jaw of his ― could pass for human.

“You fascinate me,” he declares, the corners of his mouth curving into a toothy smile. “Each and every time you grace me with your company, I always discover something new and absolutely dazzling about you.”

You quirk a brow. To be told that you “fascinate” someone could mean any number of things. It’s a word that requires context to be fully understood. Modernist paintings and their use of unconventional colors and abstract shapes are fascinating. The arctic glow of the Aurora Borealis is fascinating. A small child liberating an entire world of non-human creatures to the surface is fascinating. But so are Trump supporters, child pageants, and decaying deer carcasses on the side of the highway.

Fascination can cover a wide array of phenomena: innovative or stupid, uplifting or bizarre, beautiful or disgusting.

You’re about to ask Mettaton to clarify what he means by “you fascinate me,” but he holds up a hand.

“Before you say anything else, love, allow me to share some of the things I find so fascinating about you.”

* * *

_“The way your voice catches when you’re surprised.”_

**_“I do that?”_ **

_“Just did.”_

 

Hooking up isn’t something you do very often.

Hook-up culture is convenient and everything, but you’ve learned enough from past experiences to know that the cycle rarely leads to anything more than going home in the same clothes you wore last night and never getting a text back.

The part of you that hopes for something more, something to hold on to, is always disappointed in the end. Therefore, your participation in one-night stands entirely depends upon how well you’ve prepared yourself for the let-down.

Okay, _and_ sobriety.

That said, hooking up with robot superstars you only encountered by chance is something you’ve never done ― well, until now.

You still feel groggy from the night before even though it’s mid-afternoon. Two glasses of sake normally aren’t enough to lay you out the next day with tired eyes and unending hunger pangs. (An entire box of cinnamon and brown sugar PopTarts is now sitting in your stomach and you’re currently nursing a fourth cup of coffee.) But considering all the excitement and the parts of last night you’re still trying to comprehend as having actually happened, a slight hangover isn’t all that absurd.

What _is_ absurd is any thought you may have that Mettaton will contact you again. If he does, it’ll probably be in the form of lawyers pounding at your door and forcing you to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Can’t have Mettaton’s hook-ups babbling to the tabloids to make bank off of juicy details like how he has on-call reservations to every five-star restaurant in town, how his limousine costs more than your college tuition, or how his fingers and tongue come with a vibrate function...      

You take another sip of coffee. Yes, okay, it happened. Somehow the stars of fate aligned and dictated that for one night a masturbatory fantasy of yours would become a reality. But you know how these tales of rockstar hook-ups end ― with nothing but a story to drunkenly tell at parties and have nobody believe.

Don’t expect anything to come from it. If anything does change, it’ll be in a new found awkwardness that’ll accompany watching Mettaton on television and knowing that the smile he gives to his live studio audience is the same smile he gave right before going down on you in the back of his limousine.

As much as you keep telling yourself all of this, a shred of hope still rises when you hear your phone vibrate on the coffee table.

It’s probably one of your roommates texting to see if you want to order a pizza for dinner or something normal like that.

Then your phone buzzes again and you figure it’s your dad calling to make sure you haven’t died, as he’s ought to do if you haven’t talked to him in over 48 hours.

Stop expecting anything different. Stop setting yourself up for disappointment.

When you look at your cell, there’s a vaguely familiar phone number on the screen.

Probably the pharmacy calling to remind you to refill your prescriptions you dingus. You should let it go to voicemail.

But then you realize you’ve already hit the answer icon and a tentative “Hello?” has already left your mouth. Well shit.

“Hello to you too darling!”

You just knocked the rest of your coffee onto the living room floor.

“I hope I’m not calling too soon. I know there’s some strange human rule about not calling for another three to seven days or something like that, but I’m not exactly human now, am I?”

Oh sweet baby Jesus girl, yes, there’s lukewarm coffee all over your floor and you need to clean it up but _you need to say something_ because you’re 75% sure you’re awake and sober and that Mettaton is on the phone with you _dammit SAY SOMETHING_.

“Y-yes ― I mean no! No, you’re not human, and uh, n-no, you’re not calling too soon,” you manage to blurt out, all the while running into the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels.

Mettaton chuckles and _dear gods_ , that wonderful reverberating vocoder effect is so sweet in your ear. “Fantastic! Then I take it I wouldn’t be overstepping my boundaries if I asked if you would like to accompany me to dinner on Friday night after my _Harper’s Fair_ photoshoot? You’ll still be around doing interny-things around seven, right?”

You’re on your hands and knees mopping coffee off your floor and you _think_ Mettaton is calling you to ask you out on another date. Is he asking you out on another date? Are you actually awake? Are you dead? What. _What is this?_

And like the naive college-girl who’s throwing thousands of dollars a semester into a liberal arts education in hopes of a job that’ll allow her a living wage, you respond with an astonished, “You ― you _really_ want to see me again?”

There’s a sound you can only describe as a contemplative series of beeps. “Of course darling! Why wouldn’t I? I had a wonderful time last night, and I can only assume you did as well…”

You bite your lip as you wipe up the rest of the coffee, the suggestive twang in his voice going right between your thighs. “Y-yeah, yeah! I did...a-and I’d love to do it again…”

“Excellent!” Mettaton shouts. “Then I’ll see you Friday at seven?”

“Yes! Absolutely!” Fuck, you sound too eager. “I mean, yeah...that sounds cool…”

He chuckles again, low and with the throbbing tone of a bass. “Alright gorgeous, talk to you again _very_ soon. Bye!”

You choke out a “bye” and stare blank faced at your phone, still clutching a bunch of soggy paper towels in your other hand.

So much for being pessimistic.

* * *

_“How cold your hands can get.”_

**_“Bad circulation. It sucks.”_ **

 

A comfortably heated apartment during the winter months shouldn’t be considered a luxury. But if you’re a college student barely scraping by on your internship’s meager stipend, turning the heat up past 65 degrees is unfathomable unless you can afford not to eat for two weeks. Not to mention your apartment’s heating system is old enough to give a first-hand account of the rise and fall of the Soviet Union.

Well, it _was_ older than the Soviet Union. Like the communist bloc, your heating fell apart, and as of yesterday evening you and your roommates have been freezing your asses off. Of course your heater would break in the middle of a cold front, and now you’re stuck wearing two layers of clothing to sleep until the landlord gets the heating system fixed on Monday.

What’s worse is the way the cold seeps into your body. Your feet and hands are like blocks of ice when you shove them inside layers of socks and sweater sleeves, and from which the chilly air wraps itself along the marrow of your bones. The cold impedes your fine motor skills by making the joints in your fingers lock up, and when you do get a solid grasp on a pen to take notes on class readings your scrawl is jittery from shivering. Getting a hold on a cup of coffee requires a two hand minimum, as bending your fingers suddenly needs extra effort.

You’re currently struggling to button your peacoat with numb fingertips, a normally simple task that’s now taking you so long to do that you’re worried Mettaton might think you’re standing him up. He texted at least five minutes ago to tell you he and his car were waiting for you out front, and since then all you’ve done is grab your purse and get four out of the eight buttons on your coat through their adjacent holes.

Mettaton’s a busy guy, so when you hear your phone buzz again you figure fuck it, you can survive a less than thirty second walk to his limo in below freezing temperatures with only half your coat buttoned. If there’s anyone you don’t want to keep waiting, it’s him, especially on the date where you’re going to a live filming of _Late Night with Mettaton_.

However, the moment you step foot outside your building, you’re not so confident in your abilities to withstand twenty-something degree wind chills anymore.

If only there wasn’t over two feet of snow blocking the street from your door, otherwise the limousine could pull right up rather than park along the end of the block.

For the love of god, _you just want to be_ _warm_.

You walk slowly down the icy sidewalk, each step preceded by a careful look for black ice or any where you can put your foot down without falling on your face.

Mettaton opens the car door for you as soon as you shuffle to the street corner. You don’t hop into the backseat so much as you fall into it from a particularly strong gust of wind.

“Goodness! You alright there darling?” Mettaton says, extending an arm to sit you up into your seat.

You brush some of the wind-tangled hair out of you mouth. “”M f-fine...jus’ a b-bit c-c-cold…” Even your jaw is stiff, teeth rattling over incomplete consonants and shaking vowels.

A gloved palm brushes against your cheek, pink from the frosty air nipping into your skin. “You’re absolutely freezing!” Mettaton cries. “You couldn’t have been outside more than thirty seconds, but you feel like ice. Are you feeling well?”

Your attempt at a reassuring smile appears more like a botched face lift. Peeling off your mittens (you can’t do shit in mittens) you answer, “H-heat’r in my ‘p-partment b-broke.”  

Suddenly, an arm wraps itself around your waist, pulling you flush against Mettaton’s side. To your surprise, he seems to be radiating _heat_ , the warmth coming off his chassis bleeding through layers of cold-stiffened clothes to sink into your skin.

“Here, let me have your hands.” You stifle a gasp as Mettaton clasps his palms around your clenched fists, bringing your hands to his lap and unfurling your fingers.

Although you’ve held hands with Mettaton before, it was always in the context of him either kissing the back of your hand in greeting (“Because I’m nothing less than a gentleman dear!”) or dragging you away from paparazzi. But just sitting side by side with with his hands holding yours was on an entirely different level of intimacy between the two of you. It’s been a little less than a month since you first met, and you’re unsure whether that’s too long or too short of a time to still being feeling butterflies in your stomach from holding hands.

But when you look down, you notice that Mettaton isn’t _just_ holding your hands.

The warmth you feel coming off his chest is also coming from his palms; he’s _rubbing_ the cold out of your hands with his, fingers massaging your stiffened joints and in careful circles as you feel the chill melting from your bones. There’s a familiar softness in his visible eye ― a subtle glistening of light in his pupil you’ve observed since the beginning but only recently was able to ascribe a meaning to. Mettaton gives you this dreamy look when you talk about the papers you’re writing for class over drinks; when you duck towards the nearest mirror to make sure your lipstick isn’t smeared across your teeth; when your hips shook beneath his grip as he fingered you to orgasm last Saturday night (and all over the kitchen table, you know, where you and your roommates _eat_ , not that they need to know).

It’s a look of tenderness soaking up the littlest details about you.

“A bit warmer now darling?” Mettaton’s voice is low as his hands settle into yours, stroking his thumb against your knuckles.

A warmth that has nothing ― at least not _physically_ ― to do with the talking space heater next to you rises to your cheeks.

In this moment, you can only nod.

* * *

_“How fun you are to tease.”_

**_“Ha ha, very funny.”_ **

 

You believe you’re a good student. Grades matter, mostly because your financial aid package depends on pulling at least a 3.2 GPA, but you like to think you put a considerable amount of effort into academia. You have a good relationship with your professors. You’re studious, inquisitive, prepared, and sometimes ― if you feel the payoff is worth it ― you even do extra credit work.

That said, you think you deserve a mental check out from the rest of your three-hour Monday night seminar. Midterms just ended and what little cognitive functions you had left were sucked away this morning running _three_ separate coffee trips for _Harper’s Fair_ editors.

The buzzing in your cardigan is a welcome distraction from your professor’s lecture on proper forms of academic citation. Still, you’re careful as you pull your cell out undeath the table. Texting in class _does_ annoy you when you see anyone else doing it.  

**Just finished laying down another track for the new album!**

**[File attached]**

It’s another one of Mettaton’s exclusive studio selfies ― for your eyes only ― taken at a slightly skewed angle that catches a flare of light off the angle of his jaw, his grin is bright, sharp, Hollywood ― just like the rest of him. Shyren is in the recording booth in the background, as is Napstablook (Blooky, as Mettaton calls them), who appears to be spinning some records with those adorable lil ghost nubbins they have for hands.

You hide your smile behind the screen of your laptop, hoping to appear as if you’re looking at this week’s readings on your computer rather than texting a reply.

_yay! cant wait to hear it!_

_but ugh why did i choose back 2 back 3 hour seminars :/_

And why did you sign-up for two three-hour classes back to back on a Monday nights? Because your internship leaves only two days a week open for classes and you had too much faith in your own sanity during registration, that’s why.

**Anything interesting?**

_nah just a lecture on scholarly essay writing. boring shit for the next hour. yay._

**Need some excitement baby girl?**

You swallow. Mettaton is generous with terms of endearment, always referring to his fans as his “shining stars” and peppering his speech with “darling”s and “dearest”s, whether he’s talking to paparazzi or on the phone with his publicist. Charm is just a part of his personality.

But you only recently noticed that “baby girl” was something he only seemed to call _you_ ― always accompanied by a gleam in his eye and a suggestive curl of his mouth as he held your gaze from the other side of a coffee table or the sofa in his dressing room. His vocal synth would drop pitch, drawing the words out in a deep drawl that made you ache in ways you never ached before.

It was an invitation to a game he’s played with you since the very beginning.

It got to you, and it was getting to you right now in the middle of class.

But the rules of the game have always made playing coy your best strategy, if only as a way to goad him towards what you really want.

_kay u gonna entertain me?_

**Oh darling, I’ll do more than entertain you.**

**I’ll absolutely wreck you.**  

Yup, he’s absolutely taking this conversation into _that_ territory, and you’re all too certain he’s doing so with a sharp-toothed, self-satisfied smirk on that dumb handsome face of his.

You give a cautious glance towards the girl sitting next to you ― who’s thankfully busy fucking around on Facebook ― before typing a response.

_wreck me how?_

_details dude. its all about the details._

Not even ten seconds pass before your phone buzzes with Mettaton’s response.

**Preferably with your legs spread and your pussy dripping for me.**

**And you know how** **_flexible_ ** **I can be when it comes to sexual positions. Plenty of ways for me to hold you down and fuck you until you can hardly moan my name darling.**

“Fuck,” your voice slips out, to the unfortunate notice of the girl sitting next you. You fake a (rather unconvincing) cough until she turns her attention back to her Facebook feed. Mind your own business lady.

Mettaton was certainly as filthily detailed as you could have asked for, and now you’re feeling all hot between the legs with over forty minutes of class left.

_christ why am i sexting u in the middle of class again?_

**A little hot and bothered are we?**

_ur too good at this_

**Then that should carry you through the rest of your class.**

**Have fun learning dear ;)**

This time the “shit” that escapes your mouth catches the attention of your professor.

“Is there a problem?”

You shove your phone under your thigh, panic jolting across your flushed face. “No, uh, my computer just froze...sorry.”

It’s good enough for your professor, and she turns back to the whiteboard to continue the lecture literally nobody in the room is paying attention to at this point.

Once you deem it safe enough to pull your phone back out you nearly break your fingernails typing your furious reply.

_fuck u omg i almost got kicked out of class u metal bastard_

**You have my key.**

**Fuck you very soon sweetheart.**

What a jackass.

* * *

_“How eager you can be for me...”_

**_“Hey, woah, Mett…”_ **

 

Being with Mettaton made for a rather fulfilling sex life.

Most of it had to do with Mettaton taking such an excited interest in your very human anatomy, the likes of which he’d only seen and read about before, never touched. Thus, he took a very _hands-on_ approach towards engaging in sexual relations with you, always enthusiastic and hungry to apply the data he’d integrated from biology textbooks and issues of _Cosmopolitan_ alike.

It was great to have that sort of attention paid to you, and it really had everything to do with him being composed of metal and magic and not flesh and blood. There was little to none of the fumbling or awkwardness characteristic of human relationships between the two of you ― no unachieved orgasms, no discomfort or “you’re not doing it right”s, and no hassling over birth control and protection. On the rare occasion Mettaton did find himself at a loss with how to please you, he was quick and enthusiastic to learn.

It left a significant amount of room open for sexual exploration, the freedom to be sexual and enact agency over your wants and desires without fear. But more than that, it allowed you to discover how many _kinks_ you actually have.

The terms of endearment came first, and really didn’t need much self-explaining. The “darling”s, “dear”s, and “baby girl”s could get you off like nothing else could.

The glove kink came next, partly because it was Mettaton’s solely consistent feature throughout his different forms (BETA, EX, and NEO), and thus something you could directly associate with him. And those hands of his certainly knew all the ways to turn you into a moaning, needy mess.

(Watching old Disney cartoons did become slightly weird though.)

The newest kink came when you sat in on the filming of his news show _Last Week this Weekend with Mettaton_ in the form of the fitted suit he was wearing; a red blazer with matching pleated pants, worn over a crisp white undershirt, pulled together by a silk yellow tie.

Pieces of formal attire weren’t unusual of Mettaton to wear, but the shaping of his chassis and his shoulder plates made human fashions difficult for him to wear. Apparently though, the production team had landed a contract deal with an up-and-coming fashion designer to design a whole collection of suits for Mettaton’s television shows.

And holy shit, when he posed for a joke about how Ted Cruz’s face looks as if it’s been trying to get away from him all his life that suit pulled snug against the hard angles of his body, tight in all the right places and making him look so _dapper_ and _fine_.

While the live studio audience laughed and applauded, all you could think of was grabbing Mettaton by the tie and making him fuck you into his news desk.

The desire sat heavy in your gut until the camera man ― err, camera bird-person-monster ― called “cut” and you found yourself sprinting to catch Mettaton backstage before the writers could get at him. You practically dragged him past demanding fans and confused crew members to his dressing room, and the second the door was locked shut you pounced on him with hot, sloppy kisses and needy hands.  

As you both fell back into his vinyl loveseat, your legs straddling his waist and your fingers twisted in the lapels of his jacket, Mettaton lets out a low chuckle. “And here I thought I had you all figured out. So full of pleasant surprises”

You pull your mouth from his, brow raised in bemusement at his words. “You thought I couldn’t be forward with what I want?” you ask, voice thick with lust. “You sure have a lot to learn about human girls then.”

“Not doubting you, my precious thing,” Mettaton smirks, and you feel the hand that had been on your waist slip down to knead at your thighs. “Just wondering what it could be that’s got you so eager and passionate for me.”

Okay, so it’s true that you’re the relatively submissive type; more often on the receiving end of pleasure than the giver, more often the pursued than the pursuant. Being forward meant playing coy, rarely ever initiating through direct actions or statements. You love being pampered and seldom feel the need to exercise aggression.

But god damn, the suit feels like silk beneath your fingertips, like money and power and fame are threaded within the crimson fabric. It makes your mouth water and your cunt throb.

“Well...I do like a man who knows how to wear a suit.” You bite your lips as you trail a finger down his tie. How would it feel wrapped around your wrists? Your ankles? Stuffed inside your mouth?

Mettaton’s eye glints with mischief, smirk widening into a lascivious grin, and you squeak out a gasp as a hand slips up your skirt. “Ahh, the suit then? I’m flattered my new wardrobe has your utmost approval.” A finger hooks past the crotch of your panties, probing past the lips of your sex to where you’re wet and warm with anticipation. “And I’d say your pussy is _most_ approving as well.”

You grind your hips into his touch, the material of his glove barely brushing against your clit before Mettaton’s hand pull away.

Before you can let out the whine bubbling in your throat, Mettaton’s lips are at your ear. “On the topic of clothes, you’re wearing _far_ too many my love.” He brings his fingers to the top button of your blouse, popping it open with a flick of the wrist to reveal the tops of your breasts.

He greets each new expanse of your skin with teeth and tongue, groaning in static glitches as he makes his way down your shirt with deft fingers. You, on the other hand, have already wiggled out of your skirt. Having to reach back and tug your skirt free from your ankles gives Mettaton a pleasant view of your breasts spilling over the arch of your spine, an areola peeking over the cup of your bra.    

Once he plucks your shirt off your shoulders (while you skirt lays in a heap wherever the hell you threw it), he sits back, hands stroking your sides as he appreciates the sight of you ― hair disheveled and cheeks pink with the desire flooding through your veins, bra straps loose against your shoulders, panties damp.

He looks at you the way artists look to their muses.

“What a gorgeous figure you have,” Mettaton hums, placing his hand along the indent of your waist. “All soft curves and subtle angles, perfect for me to kiss, nip, and touch. So willing, so eager. I should put you in one of my movies.” His other hand trails up your bare stomach, between your breasts, and along your neck to take a hold of your jaw. Blood pounds in your ears as his thumb presses into the pout of your lower-lip. “But then I’d have to share the sight of you like this, wouldn’t I?”

Not a chance. You wouldn’t do this for anyone else but him.

As if to prove it to yourself, your tongue darts out to lick the pad of his thumb. “I don’t mind being _your_ private star…” you whisper, and you swear, you think you hear something inside Mettaton purr like a brand new car engine

The tantalizing grind of your hips draws more static filled groans from his speaker, though they’re slightly muffled under his suit. Looking him in the eye under heavy lashes, you draw his thumb into your mouth, cheeks hollowing as you suckle him against your tongue.

His glove tastes faintly of leather with hints of the metal underneath. He may not have skin for you to taste, but the underground’s technology gifted him with every artificial bodily response that could mimic organic existence. You _know_ he feels the warmth of your mouth and the wetness of your tongue as well as any human or monster could.  

The expression on his face all but confirms that.

You give a final suck to Mettaton’s thumb and pull him from your mouth. Some saliva dribbles from the corner of your lips, which you wipe away with a sensuous swipe of the tongue.

Mettaton watches you with hearts in his visible eye, jaw slack and hand against the back of your neck as the purring coming from his chassis slows to a beeping pulse.

“Oh have _mercy_ …”

* * *

_“The expressions you make when I make you come...”_

**_“Oh my god we’re in a restaurant.”_ **

 

The only time your sex life with Mettaton gets complicated is before live musical performances.

He has a ritual. Actually, it’s more like a precautionary measure to make sure he’s fully energized for a show. Being a frontman takes a lot of stamina, what with all the singing, dancing, crowd-surfing (though he _really_ shouldn’t be doing it), and speaker-climbing (that he _really_ shouldn’t be doing). But technology is only as good as its power-source, and despite Alphys's many upgrades to Mettaton’s EX form, it still uses up a _ton_ of energy in order to function.

Which is why for twenty-four hours before a live musical performance, Mettaton reverts to his blocky BETA form as a way to save power.

Granted, you adore Mettaton in all of his forms, and BETA certainly is as charming as his more humanoid ones. His LED screen can pixelate hearts, smiles, and even a vector of your face. His internal processing noises are more pronounced, especially if he finds something interesting or exciting, causing him to let out a symphony of droid-esque beeps. And those rocket boosters are _really_ fucking cool.

But as much as you love BETA, there are certain _features_ the form lacks that makes those twenty-four hours before a show sexually frustrating.

(And being fingered doesn’t offer much variety.)

Today, you sat in on band rehearsal (with the promise to provide exclusive details for Mettaton’s _Harper’s Fair_ cover story). Tomorrow, the band is debuting their first single from their upcoming album as musical guests for _Friday Night Live_. They’re even going to be in a couple of sketches, though Blooky told you they specifically requested if they could be featured in a sketch as a lamp or a mailbox. Poor little buddy gets camera shy without a DJ table.

Mettaton’s physicality may be restricted in his BETA form, but his movements on his wheel were certain and precise, leaving little doubt that he’d already downloaded his moves and the timing for the pyrotechnics. You enjoyed watching him go over the performance with so much enthusiasm, especially when he’d turn to you with his screen all lit up and ask you, “WHAT DO YOU THINK DARLING?”

Thing is that you haven’t seen Mettaton all week.

I.E. Mettaton hasn’t _touched_ you (let alone had _sex_ with you) _all week._   

The both of you are currently in the elevator to his penthouse suite, hoping to end the night with a couple of drinks and relaxing conversation. He’s holding your hand and going on about how difficult it is to keep studio demos from leaking onto the internet, which is why he leaked a decoy recording of him singing his mic check against some chiptune samplings.

He’s so excited telling you how he, Blooky, and Shyren figured out the melody of the single’s opening verse on accident (“I WAS PRACTICING MY SPLITS AND KNOCKED ONE OF MY MTV AWARDS ONTO BLOOKY’S SYNTH AND THE THING GOT CAUGHT ON A BEAT. I BROKE THE MACHINE BUT HEY, MUSICAL INSPIRATION IS PRICELESS!”) that you feel like absolute garbage for having only one thing on your mind.

As he unlocks his front door, still going on about how finicky Blooky can be over their music equipment, you stand still in the hallway, shoulders slumped and fingers digging into the strap of your purse. “Mett. I’m sorry. I should go home.”

He backs up from the door, wheeling around to face you with a wag of the finger. “DON’T BE SILLY! I DON’T HAVE TO BE ON THE SET UNTIL ― ” This is when he notices your apparent distress, and instantly he’s spun to your side, stretching his hands out to hold your cheeks (he’s only up to your boob in BETA form). “DEAREST, WHAT’S THE MATTER? ARE YOU FEELING ALRIGHT? ARE YOU SICK?”

“I’m fine, I feel perfectly healthy,” you mutter, pushing his hands from your face. God, he’s just so _wonderful_ and _caring_ , what gives you the fucking right to receive all of the care he bestows when all you can think about is getting laid? “It’s just that…fuck, I feel so _selfish_ right now.”

Mettaton is undeterred, his screen flickering as he takes your hands back into his. “DARLING, YOU CAN TELL ME. I WON’T JUDGE.”

You sigh. “I know, I know, and I thank you for that, believe me.” Mettaton’s running his thumb across your knuckles, all reassurances and support for your troubles regardless of what they are. You worry your lip between your teeth. “And you know I love you no matter what form you’re in, right?”

“OF COURSE. I MEAN, I’M ABSOLUTELY IRRESISTIBLE ALL AROUND, BUT WHAT DOES MY BETA FORM HAVE TO DO WITH ANY ― ”

Christ almighty, it always comes down to bluntness with him.

“Mett!” you yell, looking away with hands clenched and face burning crimson. “I haven’t seen you or been touched by you at all this week and I don’t think I can wait until I see you in your EX form again.”

“BUT DARLING I DON’T…” he trails off in a melody of soft beeps, hand to his dial in contemplative thought, as if scratching his chin. But before you can clue him in on what you’re trying to say, his screen lights up as the realization filters through his system.

“OOOOO _OOOOOHHHHHH_. RIGHT. I SEE.”

He doesn’t sound upset. And he certainly doesn’t sound mad (and he’s absolutely _frightening_ when he’s mad). But the shame of putting your neediness into words is a fresh blanket of guilt draped around you. You can’t even bring yourself to look at him, instead training your gaze at the toes of your boots. “God I’m so fucking sorry. You’re so excited about tomorrow’s performance and the new single ― ”

“DARLING.”

“ ― and here I am thinking of nothing but _sex_ like a total piece of shit who makes all important life decisions with her goddamn vagina ― ”

“GORGEOUS…”

“ ― because as great as your are at fingering me ― and you’re a _pro_ , believe me ― I just need _more_ now in order to come and it’s so frust ― ”

“ _SWEETHEART!”_

You look up, the metallic screech of Mettaton’s voice cutting through the tangle of your racing thoughts. His hands are fisted at his sides, and you can see the mock slant of his hips in the tilt on his wheel.

But what’s more is that he’s leaning towards you so closely, to the point that you can feel the warmth coming from the hard working machinery encasing his soul.

“WHILE IT’S TRUE THAT THIS FORM MAY NOT HAVE BEEN BUILT WITH SEXUAL FUNCTIONS IN MIND, THAT’S NOT TO SAY I’M _ENTIRELY_ LIMITED IN WAYS TO GET YOU TO ORGASM.” He wags his finger, yet again. “YOU SIMPLY FAILED TO ASK.”

It takes a few beats for you to string his words together.

It takes a couple more for you to give them any semblance of meaning.

Still, your only response is a flat-toned, “What.”

“COME DARLING,” Mettaton says, smugness reverberating in his voice. You’re on the verge of saying, “No, hold up a second, what are you getting at and what aren’t you telling me?” when his arm suddenly entangles itself around your waist, instantly hoisting you into the air like some sort of show prize. “AND I DO MEAN THAT IN EVERY SENSE OF THE WORD.”

(You _really_ hate the puns.)

Mettaton immediately wheels the both of you through the front door and into his penthouse, caring neither for your protests of “Put me down!” and “I can _walk_ you know” nor for the inconveniently placed bowl of grapes he knocks from the edge of his grand piano in the living room. From the sound of it, he’s going to need to retune his piano.

He speeds through the door of the master bedroom, only then putting you back on your feet.

You’ve been in this room plenty of times before, although you’re arguable most familiar with the patterns you can make in the tiles of the ceiling. Despite not having any real need for one, there’s a king sized bed in the middle of the room, beautifully made with Egyptian cotton sheets and star-shaped throw pillows. Instead of a wall opposite the bed, floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city, stretching across brightly lit districts and sleeping neighborhoods. Aside from the various pop art paintings hung along the walls, the most interesting aspect of Mettaton’s room is the two-by-seven pod-shaped vessel next to the bathroom door; it’s Mettaton’s main charger, a plug situated in the center where his power-port resides along his back in EX form.

When plugged in, Mettaton would go into sleep mode, which made charging for lengths of time inconvenient for his star responsibilities (and charging took _a long time_ ). While the vessel was essentially made for the robotic-equivalent of sleeping, Mettaton apparently still insisted on a bed to garner a true human experience, not to mention needing a place to “make the magic happen”.

(Alphys did make a long cable for Mettaton to use if he wanted to charge on the bed as opposed to the vessel, which definitely made after-sex snuggling much easier.)

Speaking of beds, Mettaton was now lifting himself onto his, weebling and wobbling to the center of the mattress before falling onto his back with a muffled _ka-thunk._    

“ALRIGHT SWEET THING, NOW STRIP. ALL OF IT,” he chimes, hand waving towards you in bidding.

You roll your eyes, but comply, shrugging out of your clothes and taking your boots off into a messy pile on the white shag carpet. You’re a bit slower with your undergarments, quietly chiding yourself for wearing a bralet and slightly-worn boyshorts as opposed to a nice bra and panty set.

Although he doesn’t have discernible eyes in his BETA form, Mettaton is clearly watching you from the bed, humming something that vaguely sounds like the _Jeopardy!_ melody because of course he is.

Once you step out of your panties, your nudity prompts delightful beeps from Mettaton. “GOOD GIRL, PRECIOUS GIRL.” The lights of his screen dim in a mock expression of seduction, and he beckons you towards him with a curl of the finger. “COME JOIN ME ON THE BED.”

It’s hard to take him seriously in his BETA form. He’s practically cartoonish, vaudeville. Hell, from a certain angle you could mistake him for an industrial-sized tampon dispenser. Oh god don’t think of that you’ll ruin this for him.

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, Mettaton’s hand snaking to your thigh to run his fingers along your skin. From the pattern of lighting on his LED screen, you could almost say he appears to be _grinning_. “YOU KNOW, MY VIBRATION FUNCTION WASN’T NEW FOR MY EX FORM. VIBRATING PROVIDES FOR SOME GREAT SIGHT GAGS.”

Wait.

Woah.

Okay so, “vibration function”; “wasn’t new”; “vibrating”; BETA has a single compartmentalized body; “sight gag”; “sight gag”?; BETA vibration function…

Oh. _Oh_.

Oh my god, he’s essentially a sentient sybian.

At the wide-eyed realization on your face, Mettaton beeps with a low laughter. “THAT’S RIGHT!” he says, hand sliding up your hip. “NOW STRADDLE MY MONITOR. GET YOUR CLIT NICE AND SNUG AGAINST ME.”

Fuck. Oh fuck. Okay. You lift up and onto him, legs on either side of his body, hands planted along his top edge. Regardless of wherever the hell his visual outputs are in this form you’re certainly giving him an eye-full. The excited humming of his inner machinery tells you as much.

As you sit yourself down, the lips of your vulva spread across the screen, he’s so pleasantly warm against your skin that you can’t help the soft sigh that escapes your throat. It’s like sinking into bathwater.

Mettaton places his hands on your hips, and between your spread thighs you can distinctly see his LED tiles alight with power. “BRACE YOURSELF LOVE.”

And suddenly his entire body begins to vibrate underneath you.

You nearly lose your balance at the surge of pleasure that shoots up your spine. “Hng! F-fu _ck!_ ” you gasp, hand coming your mouth to try and quiet the moan. Shit, it’s _so_ fantastic. Your pelvic muscles are clenching and unclenching to savor the sensation, hips slowly grinding your clit into Mettaton’s warm monitor.   

“FEELING GOOD THEN, I ASSUME?”

Mettaton’s hands slip to grab at your ass, pulling your hips down to smear what wetness you’ve accumulated between your legs across his screen. “M-Mett! Oooh _hhhh_ …”

“COME ON, LET YOUR HIPS MOVE,” he chuckles, feeling the rigid tension of muscle in your thighs. “NO HOLDING BACK ON ME MY SWEET!”

You comply with sweeping circles of the hips, aided by the delicious feeling of Mettaton’s fingers digging into the flesh of you ass as his hands guide you into a clockwise motion.    

“YES. JUST LIKE THAT. CLENCH THOSE GORGEOUS THIGHS AROUND ME YOU NAUGHTY LITTLE THING.”

It’s all you can manage from just outright humping him into the bed like a dog. Not that you’d think he’d have an complaints about that, but still, you need to keep some restraint intact.

You lean forward the slightest bit, directing the vibrations towards just the right spot by your clit. It’s got your blood pulsing like live wires, and the build-up to orgasm is growing steady from the pressure against your core. God, you’re practically melting. There’s no doubt that you’ll be coming in only a matter of minutes.

Mettaton, however, seems to have plans to speed along the process. One of his hand moves up to press into the flat of your back, while the other lows to the crease of your ass and thigh.

“TILT YOUR HIPS UP JUST A BIT,” he says, and you, you’re so lost in how good everything feels that you don’t even question him manhandling you.

Obediently, you lean forward until your breasts a flush against the monitor, vibrations hardening your nipples. But then you feel one of Mettaton’s fingers prod its way into your newly exposed entrance and you just _scream_ with pure delight.

“THERE WE ARE!” Mettaton’s finger moves in and out of you. “NOW HOW’S THAT?”

You can only respond in slack-jawed groans of pleasure.

Your body seems to be moving all on its own at this point, trying to dig deeper and deeper into that buzzing pressure against your clit whilst enjoying the wet pump of a finger into your soaked pussy. The crest of an orgasm isn’t far off. In fact, it’s close, very close. You can feel in uncurling in your belly.

Mettaton continues fingering you with high-pitched beeps of excitement. “WHY I’VE NEVER FELT YOU SO WET!” God, you can feel yourself leaking all over his hand. His monitor better be waterproof, or he better have a good bottle of Windex lying around. “ARE YOU GOING TO COME SOON?”

“A-ahhh _hhh!_ ” That was supposed to be a “yes!” but, you know, kinda hard to talk at the current moment.  

Apparently, that’s enough of an incentive for Mettaton, and he quickens the pumping of his finger inside you. “THAT’S IT. COME ON.”

Your muscles begin to tighten.

“LET IT GO LOVE, LET YOURSELF GIVE IN.”

A cry bubbles at the back of your tongue.

“COME FOR ME BABY GIRL.”

You practically sob through your orgasm, your entire body going rigid as the climax shakes you from your core and out towards your fingertips. It’s without a doubt the most blissful orgasm you’ve ever had.

After a couple more moments of jerky movements and high-pitched cries of release, you finally come down, and Mettaton ceases to vibrate as your entire body goes slack atop him with exhaustion.

Your thighs are absolutely drenched ― to say nothing of Mettaton himself ― and you feel as if you just finished running the mile in high school gym class, so you’ll surely be aching and sore tomorrow morning, but you’re sated and content. Spent but warm, snuggly.

Sensing your exhaustion, Mettaton threads his fingers through your hair to massage your scalp. “WOULD YOU RATHER A ROUND TWO OR MAY I DRAW YOU A BATH?”

You smile, nuzzling your cheek against the top of his body. “Mmm, bath please.”

You think you’ll be looking forward to Mettaton’s live performances much more now.

* * *

“Well don’t you see darling? You excite me in so many ways! I’m endlessly fascinated by all the little things you do that come together and, well, make you _you!_ ”   

You take another swig of wine, still shifting your gaze around the restaurant to make sure all of Mettaton’s X-rated talk has gone unnoticed. For the love of god, there’s a family not even two tables away from you. They’ve got a toddler too. “Okay, I have to admit, you gave some endearing examples. And again, I should really go see a doctor about my inability to conserve body heat. But still, I’m sure these qualities I have aren’t unique to just me. I’m just another human.”

Mettaton smiles, but it’s a smile much different than the ones you’ve come to know over the past couple of months. It isn’t a smile of smug pride or of primetime panache, and it certainly isn’t one of those “I _really_ can’t wait to take you home and fuck you against the sink” grins.

It’s a smile of pure happiness, and for a moment, you swear you can see a little ghost flash before your eyes.

“But you’re _my_ human, and you fascinate me because out of billions of stars, yours shines the brightest to me.”    

Your heart skips in your chest. You feel as if you’re falling in love with him all over again.

All you can really do in this moment is smile and receive all the love Mettaton can give to you.   

You do deserve it after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Give kudos for the fine dining and breathing.
> 
> Bookmark for Blooky getting their music equipment fixed.
> 
> Comment if you want you own vibrating calculator.


End file.
